


Feeling For Days

by Osprayhurricane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 08:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17577701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osprayhurricane/pseuds/Osprayhurricane





	Feeling For Days

It's a Saturday afternoon at John's house. Molly has taken Rosie to watch her for the weekend. 

 

Sherlock had woken up early wanting to join Lestrade on a cold case but John refused, said he had other plans.  

 

And so, hours later, that's how the pair find them selves atop John's bed. 

 

Sherlock is currently has both John reading his newspaper with one hand, 

 

 

Sherlock still hasn’t noticed. John stares at the ceiling, his vision blurring and tears clouding his eyes as sparks sear in his belly. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the bed, John’s thighs thrown up on either side of his. Two of his long, glorious fingers are buried knuckle-deep in John’s arse, his other impossibly large hand resting at the crease of his groin, feeling as John’s muscles twitch and jump involuntarily at the stimulation.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John arches a bit and moans. “More pressure, love…just a bit more—OH!” Seminal fluid pulses out of John’s aching cock as the tips of Sherlock’s fingers press just a bit harder into his prostate. It’s pooling on his belly, and John is leaking so copiously that it’s beginning to run down his side. He can’t see Sherlock—he can’t see much of anything with the stars bursting behind his eyes—but he knows what Sherlock probably looks like between his legs: eyes hooded and flushed red with arousal, his long, slender cock flushed gorgeous pink and stiff against his belly. John’s mouth waters and his cock pulses out more fluid at that image of Sherlock in his mind’s eye.

“Like that, John?” Sherlock’s voice is low and rough, but still surprisingly soft, as his fingers twist once and then curl again, catching the spongy nub of flesh. John can hear the smirk in his voice. Sherlock takes great pride in being able to so thoroughly please John.

“Fuck, love…yes…just like that,” John can, and has, come from Sherlock’s deft fingers (or that gorgeous prick) alone, exploding in a burst of white light and heat without either of them stimulating his cock. Those are John’s favorite orgasms; in his mind, they speak to the absolute heart stopping connection they share, a testament to the love and intense intimacy he’s never felt with another person.

“Do you want—”

“No,” John cuts Sherlock off with a strangled moan, the word barely recognizable. “Like this, love. Oh, fuck, Sherlock…but I want to see you. I want—Jesus, fuck—I want to come like this, and I want to watch you touch your-yourself…”

“You want to watch  _me_?” Sherlock’s fingers stop twisting, and John moans in both relief and disappointment. The sensations are overwhelming. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can look at Sherlock. He’s beautiful, blurry and shimmery from the low light in the room and sheen of tears in John’s eyes. As John suspected, his white skin is mottled with pink and red, curly hair damp and tousled. He’s breathing hard through an open mouth, lips still raw and puffy from John’s ardent kisses before he laid back on the bed. His penis is fully erect and upright, the glans flushed the same color as his lips and wet with precome. His mouth floods again at the sight, and that strange feeling blooms in his chest again: awe and incredulity that this stunning creature belongs to him. That  _he_  is the reason for Sherlock’s arousal. It’s humbling and John feels a hint of sadness poke through his desperate need to come.

But he pushes that inconvenient feeling down and exhales hard, “yes.”

Sherlock’s cheeks glow a brighter pink, if possible. While Sherlock has become increasingly more adventurous since their first night together, when he was a bundle of nerves and reluctance that John found positively delicious, he’s still fairly self-conscious, still discovering feelings he pushed down for far too many years. He still looks to John for guidance, still displays hesitancy when John boldly asks for something he’d never considered. While their sex life is equally shared and completely mutually enjoyed, John is undoubtedly the chief choreographer simply due to his much more worldly experience. But John’s found that Sherlock trusts him completely, which has led to John being able to trust more freely, to ignore his initial defensive reactions when Sherlock grabs him from behind or holds his arms down to the mattress. John loves when Sherlock takes a more dominant role in the bed, but he also loves orchestrating, loves whispering all his dirtiest, deepest innermost thoughts in Sherlock’s ear and watching as his cheeks flush bright red with embarrassed arousal.

“Why?”

Sherlock always asks why. John is fairly certain by now that it’s because he likes hearing John’s answers. He basks in John’s praise in all its forms, whether at a crime scene or in their bed.

“I could make you deduce it,” John winks, and pushes himself up into a full sitting position. He feels a tight pinch in his arse at the movement; Sherlock’s two fingers are still buried inside him. “But I like telling you,” he licks one of Sherlock’s cheekbones, and feels the flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his skin. “And I know you like hearing it, even if you huff and roll your eyes.” John’s tongue swipes down the other side of Sherlock’s face. He presses his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Because you’re beautiful, you’re fucking gorgeous.” Sherlock shivers and John can’t hold in his moan when Sherlock’s fingers curl a bit inside him. “I love your fingers, your cock, your mouth…all of you, you make me feel so good. But nothing feels as good as watching you come…you’re so fucking beautiful when you’re coming, when that big brain of yours stops whirring. And I love your hands,” John bites Sherlock’s earlobe gently. “I love them on me and in me…and I want to see your gorgeous prick in your gorgeous fingers.”

Sherlock sighs shakily and John pulls back to give him a searing kiss, hot and wet. Sherlock tastes like mint and cigarettes and a bit like Mrs. Hudson’s tart, and he smells like rich, clean sweat and sex with just a hint of lemon and basil from his shampoo and John has absolutely no idea how he went so long without this when it was right within his grasp. He pulls out of kiss with a messy slurp and can’t help but laugh as Sherlock’s face instinctively moves to follow his mouth. His eyes are still closed and he looks positively debauched.

“You’re breathtaking,” John leans in for another kiss, gentle but still wet. “Can I watch, beautiful? Will you touch yourself while you fuck my arse with your fingers?”

Sherlock’s eyes open and he gazes back at John with an intensity that stabs sharp in his chest. “If you want me to…”

“Fuck, I do.” John reaches behind him—a bit awkwardly—and props a pillow up against the headboard. “Here, love…let’s scoot back a bit.” He manages to slide back so he can lean up against the pillows, and Sherlock’s fingers remain steadfast inside him as he follows forward, kneeling between John’s bent knees. The movement sends sparks through his prostate again and his cock dribbles out more fluid. John’s entire abdomen is slick with sweat and seminal fluid.

“Fuck, John, you’re making a mess,” Sherlock smirks, and bends forward over John’s belly.

“Wait!” John stops him before he can lick the salty fluid from his skin. “Give me your other hand, love.” Sherlock obeys, holding out his large hand, and John guides it to swipe over his belly, gathering the slick liquid into his palm. “There. Use that, and touch yourself.”

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock breathes and licks his swollen lips. He swallows hard. “What you if need—”

“I won’t. Now start moving those delicious fingers again and fuck that gorgeous fist with that gorgeous prick—OH FUCK!” Sherlock’s fingertips immediately curl back into John’s prostate, swollen and hard, and John struggles to keep his eyes open to watch as Sherlock wraps his hand, slick with John’s pre-come, around his cock and begins to stroke.

“John,” he moans, his hips stuttering forward slightly as he begins to stroke in earnest, his fingers still twisting and stroking inside John.

“That’s it, beautiful, long tight pulls…Jesus fuck, Sherlock, do you have any idea what you do to me, when you’re like this?”

“John,” Sherlock’s verbal skills deteriorate quickly when being stimulated, sharp cries and moans interspersed with John’s name. The sounds Sherlock makes during sex are the most beautiful sounds John’s ever heard. He can only hope Sherlock likes the sounds he makes in turn.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John grunts, his hips jerking. “A bit harder, love—yes!” John’s vision swims are Sherlock immediately increases the pressure of his fingers. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to watch, as Sherlock moans and doubles over, his left hand working faster over his cock, his right rocking harder into John. A bit of drool slips from Sherlock’s open lips and lands on the tip of John’s cock where he’s bent over him, and that deliriously filthy sight is almost enough to push John right over the edge.

“Fuck, Sherlock…you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” John can feel the warm pressure building in earnest in the pit of his pelvis. “Touching yourself…fuck me harder, love…that’s it,” Sherlock’s fingers start to piston in and out of John’s hole, stretched now and slippery, the pads of his fingers curling to press upwards on each pass. John is leaking freely now. He doesn’t know how he’ll have any come left when he finally reaches climax.

“John…”

“Look at me—fuck---look at me, Sherlock,” John orders, and Sherlock lifts his head, eyes boring directly into John’s. They’re almost black with desire and the red mottle is creeping up his neck. A bead of sweat runs down his neck and between his pectorals, over the small, shimmery purple mark just below his sternum. John reaches out to gently brush his fingertips over the scar, never breaking eye contact. “You’re so gorgeous…so fucking sexy, like this, all the time, but fuck Sherlock…so beautiful, touching yourself like this. I could watch you like this all goddamn day.” The pressure is building, spreading, and John’s toes curl into the mattress as his thighs begin to shake.

“I’m close, John…” Sherlock gasps.

“I know you are, love, I can see when you are,” John exhales hard through his teeth. He’s not going to last much longer. “FUCK!” He grunts as Sherlock’s thumb presses into his perineum, so he’s now pressing on his prostate both inside and outside John’s body. “Fuck, you’re amazing…everything, everything you do…you’re so beautiful, so perfect…everything…”

“So are you, John,” Sherlock’s hand moves faster on himself, his eyes still locked with John’s. “I love watching you, hearing you, even when you’re just reading some-something tedious in your chair…you’re—you’re perfect, John…so perfect…”

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” The sharp stabbing in John’s chest returns one-hundredfold as Sherlock’s words, as simple and matter-of-fact as anything else he says, but in that soft, gentle voice that only comes out when they’re like this, wrapped up in each other.

“Please, John, I’m so close, please,” Sherlock’s hands are both losing their rhythm, but it doesn’t matter, because the pressure is cresting low in John’s belly and he can’t hold on anymore anyway, so he reaches out to grab the back of Sherlock’s head, and grips, hard.

“Me too, love, me too…come for me, I’m-I’m…” and John’s groan rips from his chest as the pressure and heat shoot down to his toes and up his spine and somehow, he still has enough in him to come heavy and hard across his belly and chest, cock jumping untouched, and he sees and hears Sherlock follow immediately, stomach contracting and his fingers curl hard into him as if he were an anchor. Milky fluid spurts out over his fingers and onto John, mingling with his own ejaculatory secretions. Sherlock exhales hard and slumps forward into John’s embrace and the mess, his fingers sliding out of John’s arse as they both continue to twitch and shake.

After a few minutes, when John’s heartrate and breathing have started to slow and Sherlock begins snuffling and nuzzling into his neck, John huffs out a laugh.

“Well, that was something.”

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock rumbles, getting both arms and hands behind John’s back in his characteristic death-gripe.

“Fuck,” John chuckles, running a hand up Sherlock’s bony spine. “We made a mess.”

“Most of it is yours.”

“Yes, well, it’s still your fault.” John presses a kiss into the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Mmmmm…”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, nuzzling and mouthing at sweaty skin and hair, and John thinks about what Sherlock said, while he neared his orgasm.  _You’re perfect._ John swallows. “Sherlock,” he breaks the silence, hesitantly. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Mmmm…which part?”

“That you think I’m perfect…” the words come out a hushed, choked whisper, and John cringes inwardly at himself for asking, and for the question sounding so childish, so insecure.

But Sherlock only snorts. “Of course you’re perfect. Don’t be an idiot, John. You’re extraordinary and amazing and interesting and handsome and  _perfect_ , even when you’re grouchy or hung over or go to boring work or think you have to dye your hair.”

_Oh_. “You noticed.”

“Of course I did. I notice everything about you.”

“It was only meant to cover the grays. It’s fucking awful.”

“It’s not awful,” Sherlock pushed himself up on his arm so he’s leaning over John. He pushes his face into John’s hair. “It’s something new, and it’s you. Two of my favorite things.”

“Lookit you, making shit up.” John pushes up into Sherlock’s nuzzle.

“I’m not making shit up, John.”

“I look like a toupee-commercial after-picture.”

“A what?”

“Nevermind. It’s ridiculous. It looks fake.”

“It looks like you. As a brunet.” Of course Sherlock knows the male-version of brunette, the smarmy cocksucker.

“So you like this better?”

“Not better, John.” Sherlock pulls back and looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet. “I like all versions of you. This one included. You don’t have to bother changing it. It’ll grow out.”

“Hrmph. I’m going to the barber Monday. I’m going back.”

“Fine,” Sherlock plops back down and curls up against John’s sticky chest. “But you don’t have to change anything about yourself, John. Just be John. Perhaps I should have told you that...”

“Ok, now you’re really making shit up,” John swallows hard again, feels tears sting behind his eyes at the uncharacteristic consideration coming from Sherlock. Neither of them does particularly well with raw emotion expressed out loud, even as much as they desperately crave it from the other.

“You’re perfect, John. And beautiful and handsome and wonderful. Because you’re John.  _My_  John.

“You’re perfect, too, love. Always.”

“Keep the hair.”

“I will if you bleach yours.”

“No.”

“Then I’m going back to my dull, yellow-gray.”

“Fine. Just stay John.”

“Always, my love. Always.”

### Notes:


End file.
